Hand Over Your Ward – (Stop talking over me)
by Late to the Party
Summary: What if Charname had a photographic memory? What if Charname possessed a degree of agency and didn't let others speak for him? AU one-shot. Part I of the 'Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda' Series.


**A/N: More blatant abuses of game concepts. As always, aside from the protagonist, I don't own the characters in this piece.**

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"Hand over your ward–"

"You're a fool–"

"I can speak for myself." Cĥaȑȵȧmę cut in, "No one is 'handing' me over. Be silent, old man–"

"Heh."

"–You there, yes, you in the spikey armour. I know your voice. You're that monk, the one that recites the…" There was a momentary pause on Cĥaȑȵȧmę's part, then a deep-throated chuckle from the 'highwayman'. Before Gorion could take back control, Cĥaȑȵȧmę ploughed on, "Four on two hardly seems sporting; if it's me you want, why don't we settle this matter between the two of us. Dismiss your lackeys and have at ye. That is what you're here for, isn't it?"

"Child, no!" Gorion's eyes' budged.

"Quiet, old man. You said so yourself: equip yourself as you feel able. I should know myself by now, remember? What do you think will happen if I run away? Will I be running for the rest of my days, numbered though they may be? Stand aside – and you, have your lackeys retreat." As he spoke, Cĥaȑȵȧmę moved to ready his steel but in reality hefted a vial.

"So be it. We end this here." The armoured figure rumbled and strode forwards.

Anguish gripped Gorion but his ward pushed on, and swiftly quaffed the fluid, shrouding him from sight. Invisibility had a great many uses, and as his foe grunted, Cĥaȑȵȧmę did what he did best: cheat. It wasn't some ancient artefact or dusty old tome, nor was it an attempt to hamstring the towering figure that stood at least a foot and a half higher than him. No, it was much more simple than that. It was a mad and desperate spell, one might almost say a _reckless_ incantation, one that had got him into ever so much trouble before as the cellar full of rats were thoroughly squashed… along with the cellar itself as Cĥaȑȵȧmę ran screaming from the demon he accidentally summoned. Only this time, it was less accidental and more skewing the odds in his favour: that old twit Firebead had cast his own wards upon him, shielding him from all manner of evil, and Cĥaȑȵȧmę had always possessed a certain knack for remembering how to recreate things, even mishaps, whether fortunate, misfortunate, or otherwise, he twisted the Weave to resemble the exact specifications from the incident in the cellar and… there it was.

A portal began to open, just as his own shroud began to shimmer and fade. It was at that point that he quaffed a second vial, re-shrouding him, even as his foe roared his fury and the horned monstrosity stepped forth from the fiery gateway.

Gorion, of course, was wise enough to retreat, his eye upon the duel as well as on the armoured figure's companions: two ogres and a woman clad in plated mail. Of course the woman looked as if she were about to intervene, but something held her back, a grimness in her eyes. Or so Cĥaȑȵȧmę thought, as much as he could make out her features during the darkness of the night. The ogres took one step back, then two, and looked ready to route, but the woman waved a wickedly cruel mace and they held. That was, until Cĥaȑȵȧmę's second incantation was complete… and a second fiery portal opened up somewhere behind the armoured figure. Whirling around, the man unleashed a guttural grunt of pure fury and that massively long blade swept through the air, but somehow the demon seemed mostly unfazed and struck back. Both demons struck and it wasn't long before the duel was over.

As soon as the armoured figure fell, Gorion began chanting the same chant that Firebead had chanted over Cĥaȑȵȧmę; the ogres broke and took for the trees as fast as their long legs would carry them, and the woman let out a cry of grief and fatalistic something – Cĥaȑȵȧmę wasn't entirely sure what – and charged headlong at the slightly wounded demon, while Cĥaȑȵȧmę himself raced as far away from the portal as he could, signalling to his mentor to follow and hoping the ward wouldn't wear off.

Memorisation of tomes over a lifetime of rote, recitation, and honing his already near-perfect recall did have its uses, as did 'following' Lady Tymora. Well, he couldn't exactly bank on luck, but making offerings certainly helped. What else was a mage with 'wild' magic to do?

_Fin_.


End file.
